Save Me From Myself
by Slyth-Rei
Summary: Post-Voldemort. Harry is the next Merlin, and only Draco can save the Golden Boy from himself.
1. Harry

 Harry inhaled sharply, a hiss of pain reflecting the action that caused it. Once the initial stinging passed, Harry closed his eyes and leaned back, head against the wall. The metallic scent of blood filled the air as crimson beads gathered on the Boy-Who-Lived's stomach, occasionally running down over pink and white scars. He sat there for hours, contemplating life, as he knew it, watching the world move on the back of his eyelids like a Muggle video. 

_What is so powerful about my blood?_ Harry thought. _And why is nothing ever enough?_

Feeling the fight ooze out of his will, Harry picked up the knife and cut again, again, again. 

It's mesmerizing, how perfect skin can be broken. A moment of pain to silence the demons, ushering in moments of brief clarity and oneness, with what - I'm not sure, but I'll take what I can get. One cut, and then the skin parts, revealing its secrets to the world. I'm hypnotized every time by what I see there, veins, muscle, blood, water. 

Fresh wounds were laid on old ones, fresh cuts opened up former scars. 

_My golden skin turns pale, covering my bones in harsh contrast to the deep ruby sparkles glistening as they glide across other cuts, across other unbroken skin. A change…why can't I change so easily?_

Beads of bloods turned into trickles, then streams, then gushing rivers.

_Why_ _me_? 

He picked himself up and crawled into the bathtub, stopping up the drain with the old, stained plug.

_Feel it, the blood, so red, so warm, warming the blackness, filling the emptiness._

Harry leaned against the back of the tub, his head resting on the edging.

_Colors swirling, red, blue, green, white, black. How much of the movement is dizziness and headache, and how much of it is blood loss and malnutrition and injury and hatred?   
_  
Harry's eyes fluttered, his pupils shrinking to tiny pinholes before rolling back in his head. A small speckle of blood drained from Harry's mouth. He shook once, twice, then fell into unconsciousness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

_The red looks like blood. So pure, so free, so alive. It moves and dances around me, a dance of life and growing and changing. It pulls me in and seduces me, kissing me. I give in to the call of the blood and let out more.  
  
The blackness is so different, so cold, so dead as it returns. It always does. It sweeps in towards me silently, pressing its existence on to mine. I give in to the call of the darkness and let it surround me._

The only two colors left in the world – in my world – are red and black. The others were not strong, they have been eaten by the redness, been consumed by the blackness. They come at me from every side, pulling me in opposite directions. Do I choose the red - the blood, the life, the heat, the anger, the hatred – or do I choose the black - the death, the end, the numbness, the apathy, the cold? A decision must be made before one can be made for me. Everything is so red and so black at the same time. I don't know what to do, which one to choose.  
  
A thousand visions whirl in my head. I see sunrises and sunsets, dead bodies, rivers of blood, the angel of death, an eagle, a raven, fire, ashes, the two colors swirling into each other. The thought of a scab comes into my mind - a thing that begins life red, but ends black.  
  
The two are one, I realize. There is no apathy without emotion; there is no heat without the cold. To live is to die, and to die is to live.  
  
I am more comfortable with the blackness, so I will choose it first. I will live in death, and prepare to die in life.

My soul is black.

  
My blood is red.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry hovered on the shores of the river of life for three weeks before he finally gave up and decided to live. It took him another few days to recuperate to the point of opening his eyes and blinking furiously in the harsh glowing light that surrounded him. He was in a bed, with a nightstand next to him, a chair next to that. Curtains around his bed, the hum of voices just beyond.

_Hogwarts_, he thought to himself. _The infirmary._

"No," he heard, coming from the outside. "He's not awake yet. We'll let you know when he is."

Madame Pomphrey.

A pause, a quieter voice speaking, too low for Harry to hear.

"He should be fine."

Another pause.

"I'm not sure what happened. The wounds look self-inflicted, but you never know with these Death Eaters around. Especially since he was found well outside of Surrey."

Soft murmuring.

"Albus isn't sure how he made it to Germany unnoticed. With all of the wards on the house and the locator spells tagged into his energy, Harry should'nt've been able to walk into the next street without alarming us."

_Goes to show the power of the darkness,_ Harry thought grimly. _Once I found the spells, they weren't too hard to disarm with Dark Magic. Good thing Voldemort never discovered that._

"Yes, Albus did say something about the wards being shut down. He's sent Professor Snape to try and figure out how."

I can blame it on Voldemort and no one will ever know. I was kidnapped, taken to…..taken to the Durmstrang area, held in a prison, waiting for Voldemort's orders. It might work.

"Well, the school term won't start for another two weeks or so. He'll be fine by then."

Fine is a relative term. I will be fine. I will show them fine. I will give everyone what they want. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry never told anyone – even Dumbledore – what had really happened that day, in that inn bathroom, in his heart. In rare unguarded moments, he appeared darker than ever before, but few saw those moments. His housemates thought him tired by the war, worn out, but never dark. Harry thought Snape knew, thought that many of the Slytherins sensed a change in him, for they never really tormented him again. They accepted him silently, slyly, as one of their own. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

I have to shut out the world,  Harry would remind himself. It was his morning mantra, getting out of bed and telling himself that isolation was the key. When people look at me with some demand, some anger, or supposed warnings its the same as when they look at me with love, or concern, or open expectations.

How stupid can they be?  He thought in the shower. I will never live up to what someone else has planned for me. I will never be understood. I am not anyone's but my own, and the idea of taming me is hilarious.   
  
On the way to Potions, getting ready to face the one professor that might understand what he was going through: When a person has nothing to lose, don't you think the slightest thing that can get them angry can one day turn deadly? Don't you fucking know this?   
  
Every time a friend looked confused at Harry's behavior, the Golden Boy smirked, thinking; don't fuck with something you don't understand. 

At night, Harry would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, carrying on an internal dialogue so harsh, his enemies would've been cowed by the dark passion it carried. No one understands me. It's not a surprise they don't understand my motivations. They never assume the truth, that I'm just naturally dark. He would toss and turn for hours. Why is it so damn fucking hard to breathe? Once Harry would fall asleep, dreams and nightmares would awaken him, sending him over the edge of sanity. Why can't I dream of happy things? The cynic in him, what was coming to **be **him, answered; that one's easy, at least. One question out of my thousands, I can answer. I am not happy. I have never been happy. I will never be happy. Why would I dream of things I don't understand? Don't know? Never experienced? As he drifted off to sleep an hour before he had to rise, Harry's thought became hard and unforgiving.  This is my life. This is what people expect. This is what they need. And this is what they'll get. He never slept well.  
  
He sat at breakfast and skimmed the Daily Prophet over grapefruit and toast. Hide behind your stupid fear, whatever it is you're afraid of now. Hide behind your fear of Voldemort, your fear of me, for all I care. It's a rush, knowing I have enough power over someone to provoke a flinch when I glare at them, to provoke a throbbing when I grin their way, Harry would think, his eyes scanning the Great Hall above the printed paper.   
  
Your fear is not doing anyone any good when you play it off as something tough; he mentally coached his friends, his schoolmates. Your toughness is nothing to me. Try waking up every day to a world you can't bear; to breathe anymore. Try not being able to speak because you can't stand the sound of your voice. Why do you hate? Why do you think you can hate more than me? Why do you think your hate is more powerful? I've always been stronger. 

And it was true. Harry always was stronger. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

His seventh year passed quickly. Harry graduated near the top of his year, behind Hermione, Draco, and the one or two odd Ravenclaws. He had taken extra tutoring in the dark arts from Professor Snape, who watched Harry carefully, as if the student were a coiled cobra, waiting to strike. It amused Harry, but never cheered him.

With graduation came the full onset of the war. Harry joined the Order of the Phoenix and became Dumbledore's second in command. He gave in to the darkness inside of him, slowly, as the full power of his magic met the power of the Unforgivables. Many Death Eaters quailed at the sight of the emotionless Golden Boy, the sight of a face of purity covering such a black heart driving a few insane. Those who stood, shocked, died first. 

The others soon followed.

After every battle, Harry stood on the ground, watching as Aurors captured those Death Eaters still alive and marking those dead.

Pain is a comfort, Harry would think silently. I need pain, am addicted to it. It's almost sufficient, but not quite strong enough to fill an aching void inside. Why won't it be enough? I long for a knife that I can slice open my flesh with. A clean knife that will dig out the pain from inside of me, that I thought was gone. A clean knife that will spill blood and hope and breath and leave me gashed yet alive.  
  


"It was a good fight," someone would say to Harry, a different Auror every week.

  
Pain is a terrible lie. 

"It was indeed," Harry answered every time.

It promises so much.   
  


"Until the next, Harry."

  
It gives nothing. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

The void was never completely filled, not even on Avalon, where Harry turned into something else, where he became Tanaiste, the Phoenix Lord. The blackness continued to haunt his dreams as the redness threatened to swallow him up. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Five years after graduating, he knew he was close to finding the answer. The sense of fulfillment lingered in the air around him, heavy as a ripe peach waiting to be picked. 

Not yet, he thought, standing outside the room. But today. 

He felt the call of his Order, and calmed his breathing.

Everyone is waiting, Harry thought to himself. I need to go in.

And so he did, only to begin another adventure. One more, in the life of Harry Potter – the adventure of love.


	2. Draco

I didn't know what he had done, that summer, to cause him so much pain. I assumed it was Voldemort, tried to ignore the darkness that was so…him. I was in bed for three weeks, comatose, unwilling to live if it meant living without him. 

_I've loved him since the first day I laid eyes on him._

I was supposed to be inducted into the Death Eaters that summer, but my…condition didn't allow it. Voldemort himself came to my bedside once I awoke.

"Heal quickly, young dragon. Once you have your awakening, come see me. It will do well to have a fully trained Veela in my ranks."  
  
I was amazed.

"You would let me take the ethereal from my father?"

"Of course," he answered. "Your father is…less than desirable, both as a follower and as a Veela. He refuses to learn what he can."

He turned to leave, but paused at the door, turning to me and pinning those blood-red eyes on mine.

"Who do you hate, dragon?" he asked.

I laughed inwardly. _He thinks to know my mate by my hatred. Little does he know. The first Veela Shrine in the Malfoy family in a thousand years._

"Parkinson," I answered, full of truth. 

_I hate her. She's nothing like my Harry._

Voldemort's eyes gleamed with triumph and he left. Pansy Parkinson, a faithful Death Eater already, from a pureblood family with dark leanings. He thought to make her mine. Little did he know. He knew nothing about Veela Shrines, knew nothing about the Order, knew nothing about my true loyalties.   
  


~*~*~*~*~*~

  
I dreamt that night, dreams I knew I was sharing with my soul mate. I dreamt sunrises and sunsets, dead bodies, rivers of blood, the angel of death, an eagle, a raven, fire, ashes, the two colors swirling into each other. The thought of a scab came into my mind, as I knew it went into Harry's - a thing that begins life red, but ends black.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When school resumed, I could see the change that had come over my beloved. He was finally letting out the darkness in his soul, finally becoming true to himself. He hid it well so as not to scare the people he lived with, but for those who exist in the darkness, it was obvious. He started taking classes with Severus, classes in the dark arts that only ate more at his soul. He excelled at them, to the point of scaring his professor with the Golden Boy's ruthlessness and hatred. It never scared me, as besotted with him as I was. I reveled in his darkness, rejoiced in his soullessness, for it brought us closer. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

I watched him over Christmas. He was the only Gryffindor at the school, and I the only Slytherin. We reached a truce, Harry too empty to continue an empty enmity. I was close to him, the one I loved. We spent a lot of time together, playing one-on-one Quidditch, studying, sitting in silence. He told me once about the Sorting Hat, how he thought he'd come to think, over the years, that he'd made a mistake. I brushed his doubts aside. _We are the perfect match, beloved,_ I thought inwardly. _The dark Gryffindor and the courageous Slytherin._

It was the best month of my life, December of my seventh year, but the New Year came all too quickly. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was the seventh of January and the night of the full moon. I felt the call of the Awakening and crept outside. I made my way to the middle of the Quidditch field and stood basking in the moonlight. My arms stretched out of their own accord and I found myself kneeling.

"Ethereal!" I screamed, my voice beyond my control. "I wake!"

In some part of my mind, I could feel my father screaming in pain, saw the blood running out of back, heard the wings falling off of his back and landing on the floor.

The next instant, I was surrounded by a dark mist.

"You are my next host?" I heard.

"Yes," I replied.

"You are sure?"

"Of course."

The mist seeped into me and spread through my body. I knelt on the field, an excruciating pain in my back forcing me to close my eyes and scream unnaturally. I keened until I was hoarse and the pain in my back became bearable. I reached back to scratch my shoulder and felt wings, covered in liquid. I pulled out a feather and stared at it uncomprehendingly. Silver. Blood.

"_You are a true Veela,"_ I heard in my mind. _"You have been Awakened. I am your ethereal spirit."_

"We are a true Veela," I murmured, still staring at my feather. "We have been Awakened. We are ethereal spirits. We are a Veela Shrine. We love Harry."

~*~*~*~*~*~

When I could stand, I pushed the wings into my back and muttered a quick cleaning spell. I stalked down to the dungeons, went to see Severus. I knocked on his door and he bade me enter. He took one look at me and knew.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Graduation came all too soon, and with it my induction into the Death Eaters. I spied for the Order even as I tortured Muggle and wizard alike. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Three years passed and then my father died the same night as ten others. I could feel Harry's fury, his bloodlust. It made visions dance across my mind. I felt the urge of destruction. Voldemort let me out and I went crazy, killing indiscriminately until Harry calmed himself. 

When I returned, Voldemort was pleased with me. The dark lord introduced me to the sexual appeal a Veela could wield and I used it against all those I could. It drove them insane. It drove me halfway to madness being so far away from my mate, with the unfulfilled lust of a Siren and a dark ethereal. It broke something inside of me, destroyed my defiance and my pride. I needed him, needed my soul mate, and Voldemort kept me away from him. Without Harry, I was never happy, never filled. There was a void in me that threatened to linger indefinitely. I could feel when he was hurt, could feel when he was angry, could feel the cold darkness that radiated off of him in battle. When his soul and mind left his body, I was confused. I knew he was alive, but he wasn't in one place. His body was fine, safe, but his soul grew heavier as his mind grew larger. I felt his pain once, and feared him dead. His body was changed. He wasn't my Harry any longer. 

I kept fighting, stayed alive. I knew he would need me.

They captured me, held me in a prison of my beloved's making for months. I didn't complain. He needed me. I was the only one that could save him from what he had become. I saw him everyday, the ethereal in me communicating somehow with the magic that bound me. My Harry was powerful.

_My Harry. _The one who had the right to kill me. Had anyone told him what I'd done? I had to live, had to do it for him, so that he could live again. 

_ My love. The only thing that can keep my sanity. _

_And I am the only one to keep yours._

~*~*~*~*~

He came. I knew he would. 


	3. Prologue Thoughts of Draco

_I've loved him since the first day I laid eyes on him, in the shop. I rambled to him, just to keep him there and hoping against all hope that he would speak to me. I reached out my hand on the train, a few days later, not realizing what I was doing. I wanted to touch him, but all I felt was the sting of his refusal. Ever since then, I've held him up as the epitome of perfection. The unkempt hair, emerald eyes in perpetual confusion and determination. He has always been the only one worthy of my insults, my utterances, my sniping, my feelings that I forced into hatred. Throughout our days in school, we each had one role to fulfill, to play to the best of our abilities. His was the role of Wonder Boy, the headmaster's Golden Boy, the hope of our kind, the Boy-Who-Lived. And there was me. After him, I had the most influence. After him, I was the most feared, heir of the most powerful and hated Death Eater, expected to follow my father into evil. No one knew back there in school – that I was working for the other side, that I loved the Boy-Who-Lived. We graduated and to all who noticed, I joined my father, joined Evil. In reality, I had followed my favorite professor's example and became a spy. I don't think my love knew – no one told him. For five years, I passed on information, things that saved his life, his friends, his world. He never knew. For five years, we fought for the same side; I just had a pretense to live up to while he paraded his innocence in full glory. For five years._


	4. A Letter

_Everyone is waiting_, Harry thought to himself. _I need to go in_. With a deep sigh, Harry walked through the doorway, pausing long enough for the charms to recognize him. He walked from the doors to his seat at the head of the table, whispered conversations he passed stopping. Harry stood behind his seat, his eyes roaming the empty chairs around the table, misting over with clouded emotion. 

He sat. "I call this meeting to order." 

No others moved or spoke, so Harry continued. "Voldemort is dead. The Dementors are dead. Our people are in charge of Azkaban and it's prisoners. We have saved our world, the world of Muggles, the worlds of dwarves, giants, elves. The world is safe for the first time in 28 years. It is also…empty. Our victory is devoid of joy. Only those in this room can feel how much our triumph has cost. We have lost many people close to us. Four years ago, three hundred people sat around this table. One by one, they have been taken from us, leaving us thirty. We are the victors, yet no joy, no hope sparkles from our eyes. And yet, we have been chosen to continue, to rebuild the world. One of our own, Arthur Weasley, has been appointed the new Minister of Magic. The new Minister has filled a chair at this table from the beginning of our battle. It is…gratifying to see that the post now has a man who can properly discharge its duties. Minister Weasley has come here with a purpose, which I invite him to share, once I offer him our deepest condolences on his losses."

"Thank you, Harry, and fellow Order members. The support you have shown me…has been amazing and I appreciate it greatly." Arthur cleared his throat and gathered his mind before continuing on with official business.

"The Ministry has decided to present the Order of Merlin, First Class, to all of us, living and dead. If we wish, there shall be a proper ceremony, with some of the Muggle leaders in attendance as well."

"What says the Order?" Harry asked. 

"It would be wrong to celebrate," Minerva McGonagall.

"It would be wrong to accept," said Cho Chang.

A phoenix flew in from nowhere, settling on Harry's shoulder and squawking in his ear. Harry was reminded of Professor Dumbledore and something the professor had once told him.

"I think we should accept," Harry interrupted. "No ceremony."

"Why?" Seamus Finnegan asked respectfully.

"We **did** earn them. And they might provide some relief eventually."

"Is that the consensus of the Order, then?" Arthur asked.

No one answered, so Harry did. "It is."

Arthur nodded and brought up his second point.

"We are not yet through with sentencing, Order members. Our next trial promises some controversy and the Ministry recommends it's audience be limited to those of the Order only."

"Who awaits the justice of the Order?" Harry asked.

"Draco Malfoy." 

With this pronouncement, the room burst into speech. Fawkes squawked again in Harry's ear, bringing the man's attention to a newly arrived rolled parchment on the table in front of him. Harry immediately probed the parchment for curses or hexes but felt only the mark of Dumbledore's magic. Harry unrolled the parchment, read it, and lost all sense of reality. 

_Dear Harry,_ the letter read.

If Fawkes has delivered this letter to you, then I am no longer living. I hope I have died to buy the Order time and lived long enough to teach you everything I could. If the Order has not yet announced it, I leave to you all of my belongings, positions, and lemon drops. When Hogwarts reopens – for it shall – I wish you to accept the position of Headmaster, if the thought does not upset you. 

_There was one other thing I wished to tell you, and that is regarding Draco Malfoy. From his earliest days at Hogwarts, Mr. Malfoy has been working for our side, as one of the Order's own Unmentionables. Much like Professor Snape, Mr. Malfoy entered Voldemort's inner circle as a spy. He passed on vital information to our side many times. I urge the use of Veritaserum on young Mr. Malfoy, and for a truth charm to be used on this letter._

_Harry, I know you were never close friends with Mr. Malfoy, but I know that you will do what is right. Remember that things are very rarely what they seem. I am very proud of you, Harry, as I know your parents are. I can only guess at the nature of things you have undergone, for which you shall always have my thanks. You have exceeded all of our hopes for you._

_Sincerely,_

_                Albus Dumbledore,_

_                Hogwarts Headmaster._

When Harry refocused on the world, he heard the rest of the table hotly debating the wisdom of a limited trial for a Malfoy, of all people. 

"He was a Death Eater! One of Voldemort's inner guardians! Everyone has the right to hear what he has to say."

"Do we want them to?"

"His parents are both dead – killed by our side. What do we expect him to say?"

"Minister Weasley?" Harry said. "May I speak with Mr. Malfoy individually?"

"Might I ask why?" McGonagall questioned.

"I would prefer not to say just yet, professor."

Arthur looked around the table, but saw only nods.

"Of course, Harry."

The rest of the meeting went by slowly for Harry. As soon as it was done, Harry apparated to Ministry headquarters. People paused as he passed by them and resumed work and quiet conversations when he was gone, noting how much deeper the circles under Harry's eyes had become, had much longer the worry lines on his face were, the invisible pressure riding on his shoulders. 

Harry had taken much upon himself during the war for such a young wizard. It was true, Harry was quite powerful, and the acknowledged leader of the Order of the Phoenix, but some still felt that, despite everything he had gone through, he was too young for such responsibilities. The first year of the war against Voldemort killed some Harry's best Gryffindor friends and Harry-watchers said the young man had never recovered. Harry's best friend, Ron, died the second year, along with Ron's new bride, the Muggle-born genius Hermione. The third year of the war lost the most people, several major battles claiming upwards of 100 people each. The year after was better in terms of losses, but one death early in the year gave the Order a major setback. During a duel with Voldemort, Headmaster Dumbledore fell victim to the third of the Unforgivable Curses. With such losses and Harry's full potential still not reached, the Order made Harry its leader and, in the fifth year of the war, he met Voldemort alone and banished the evil wizard to the lowest reaches of Hell. Months were spent picking off the most recalcitrant Death Eaters and charming the memories of traumatized Muggles. 

Harry had lost so many of his closest friends in the war, losses that had etched their way into his soul. No one had seen Harry smile in literally years, not even when Voldemort was finally defeated. The halls of Hogwarts hadn't heard Harry's ringing laughter since he graduated and very few still living knew what the Boy-Who-Lived's eyes looked like without a haunted plea for someone to wake him up from the nightmare. 

Everyone knew this, knew without understanding what Harry had lost, given up, or grown into. It was with this in mind that they stood in silent homage to his burden. Harry knew, but refused to acknowledge the awe people looked at him with – how was he special? Many people had lost family, friends, everything in the war. _Including,_Harry thought, _the person I'm going to see. Draco Malfoy._

Draco sat in his cell, as he had done for months now, nothing to do except feel the magical boundaries pulsating around him. He knew the binding spells placed on his cell were some of the most powerful in existence – they gave off the slight metallic smell of magic barely held in place he still hadn't gotten used to. If Draco closed his eyes, he could almost feel the signatures of each individual's addition to the spells. He sought out one identity, the strongest imprint out of the seven contributors. In Draco's mind, he could see the shimmering gold wire-web, weaving in and out of Dumbledore's purple Defensive magic, Weasley's green Muggle magic, McGonagall's red Transfiguration magic, Snape's black Potion magic, Black's white Ward magic, and Moody's blue Charm magic. And yet, they were only held together by Harry's golden magic, one that combined and surpassed all of the others'. Draco once found that if gently reached out to the gold thread, the image of its creator came unbidden to his mind. _My love. The only thing that can keep my sanity._

---

AN: Yes, this is a post-war fic, H/D slash. Thanks for the reviews thus far. You guys are awesome! 

To answer questions: The soul-bond is a Veela thing, and Harry doesn't know about it yet. Don't worry, he will. 


	5. Confrontations

Draco's senses picked up a visitor, the hair on his body receiving an instinctual knowledge deeper than thought. He let his hand fall down from the invisible dome that only he could see and opened his eyes. The sight of his visitor rendered him speechless. Well, almost speechless. He did manage to stutter out his guest's name.

"P…Potter?"

"Malfoy," Harry responded evenly. 

"Wh…what…I mean…"

"It's all right, Malfoy. Calm down," Harry said with a deep sigh, running a hand through unruly hair, an action that caused Draco's stomach to briefly switch places with his throat.

Without notice, the magic shell around Draco fell away. Draco could still feel the magic, albeit very weakly, and sensed it had gone into a bracelet that Harry wore around his left wrist. Giving the bracelet a closer look, Draco saw thirty small silver lanterns hanging off of four entwined – and encharmed – colored wires: green, red, yellow, and blue. 

"How could you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Wandless magic? It's supposed to be impossible. We only heard rumors…"

"Mythically, yes, wandless magic is impossible. Realistically, though, it's just a simple matter of being the right person and having a great amount of…desperation and need."

"I don't understand."

"With the war going as it was, and Dumbledore's death, it was imperative that I master wandless magic. I spent several weeks in…training…finding a way to control magic without a wand."

"It was hard?"

"And painful."

Harry couldn't believe the ease of the conversation, how comfortable he felt discussing things like this with Draco. Likewise, Draco luxuriated in the presence of his beloved and bit down his worry at Harry's confession. _If only I could have been there,_ Draco thought, _I would have taken your pain, gladly._

The conversation soon reached am impasse, Harry amazed at how much Draco seemed to have changed from Hogwarts and Draco in awe of Harry's seeming willingness to bear the burdens of untold millions. 

"Why are you here, Potter?" Draco finally asked, relieving both of the men of their torture. 

"I need to know something, Malfoy."

"Go on."

"Albus, Professor Dumbledore, left me a letter. I know it is his, and that it is untampered, and written with the greatest deliberation."

"But?"

"But I have to hear it from you."

Draco stood facing Harry; ready for anything his long loved obsession would say. Anything…

"Who's side have you been on?"

…Anything except that. 

"What do you mean?" Draco asked, stumbling backwards in shock until he hit the bed and sat down on it quite unexpectedly.

Harry watched in surprise. _Why is he acting this way?_

"I mean in the war," Harry clarified. "Whose side were you on? Where did your loyalties lie?"

"I wasn't expecting that question."

"What **were** you expecting?"

"Condemnation." Seeing the query in Harry's eyes, Draco elaborated. "I'm a Malfoy, a Slytherin, a Death Eater and a son of all the above. I wasn't expecting anyone to ask me what side I've been on," he finished, topping his words off with a bitter laugh.

"I am," Harry said softly.

Draco stared as Harry, who walked over to the silver-haired man and sat next to him.

"Please, Draco. Tell me. What…no, **who** are you?"

Draco could barely think with Harry sitting that close to him, missing the familiar address. If he inhaled, he could smell the…magic? How powerful had his beloved become, to the point where you could smell the magic seeping off of him?

"Who am I?" Draco whispered, more to himself than to Harry. "I wish I knew…at least in some entirety. I am a Malfoy, a pureblood, a graduated Slytherin. I received the Dark Mark on my 18th birthday, but it was too late."

"Too late for what?"

"Too late to tie me to Voldemort."

"Why?"

"I had already become a member of the Order. An Unmentionable. I still hadn't received an assignment, but I was spoken for."

Harry sat there, stunned. Somehow, he always knew it was true, knew something was up all those years when Malfoy never showed in battle, when Malfoy was somehow always two steps ahead of the Order. Harry knew the Order had more spies than just Snape in Voldemort's inner circle.

"Who knew?" Harry mumbled.

"Dumbledore," Draco replied, equally soft-spoken.

"Anyone else?"

Draco shook his head. 

"Not even the Ministry?"

"Oh, come on, Potter," Draco drawled, reminiscent of his days at Hogwarts. "You know Dumbledore never trusted those idiots at the Ministry. A good thing too, seeing what happened to old Fudge."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Thanks for reminding me, Malfoy."

"Anytime, Potter." After a brief pause, Draco asked, "What happens now?"

"I need more information. I believe you, I do, but I'm having trouble reconciling this Draco Malfoy from the git – no offense – from Hogwarts. And if I'm having trouble, the rest of the Order might not be so willing to believe. I suppose they'll try Veritaserum, but…"

Harry trailed off, his eyes focusing on something ahead of him that Draco couldn't see. 

"Harry? What is it?"

Harry heard Draco refer to him by his first name, and would have wondered why, but he was being pulled far away from Draco's voice. Harry was being pulled into a vision, abruptly, like he hadn't been since before the end of the way.

*Giddiness, happiness, laughter. The music of joy ringing in his ears. Harry floated on air near the ceiling of…the Headmaster's office? It looked so different than Dumbledore normally kept it, but Harry almost liked it better this way. Fawkes was sleeping in the corner, a snake curled up on a black velvet cushion directly opposite. A side opened, Harry saw himself enter, sit at the desk, look at the scene through the window. The main door opened and Draco walked through the doorway, then around the desk to place a kiss on Harry's scar. Floating Harry watched, amazed, as Draco sat on the edge of the desk and proceeded to tell Harry about some recalcitrant students before apologizing for being late to bed the night before.*

Draco stared at Harry, the vacant look in Harry's eyes chilling him to the bone. He reached over to try and shake Harry awake, but Harry simply sat there, staring into nothingness.


End file.
